


Moonlit Ghost

by ConnorRK



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Extremely Underage, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Mindfuck, Post-Season/Series 04, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Spoilers, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: Elliot jerks at the touch of fingers against his bare skin, looking down at himself. His shirt is pushed up, Edward’s hand spreading across the pale expanse of Elliot’s belly. A belly which is thinner by far than it should be, his narrow hips leading to the stick thin legs he’d had when he was a child. His knees curl around the end of the bed and his feet don’t even brush the floor.“Oh f-fuck,” he breathes.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Edward Alderson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51





	Moonlit Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for the end of the show!! For my dear Pepper, we're making our own fandom of dadcon loving freaks. <3
> 
> Edit: Carpincho_kev on twitter drew some AMAZING fanart for this fic, please check it out [here](https://twitter.com/carpincho_kev/status/1330021810147045376?s=21)
> 
> Edit2: Now with GORGEOUS cover fanart by Neuralen on twitter!! Please see [here](https://twitter.com/Neuralen/status/1334562336028364800?s=20), and in the fic itself below!!

The place he lives in after giving up control is a version of his apartment he _is_ in control of. If he wants there to be a bed, there can be. If he wants there to be a computer, it will happen. But it’s not reality. There’s no Qwerty or Flipper here. No Darlene. He supposes he could conjure ghosts. It would only be a facsimile, but he’d done it before, to keep the real Elliot content and unaware. 

It would only be a diversion. And disrespectful, maybe, but underneath he knows it would just be pathetic. He’s so tired of being pathetic.

He can watch himself, the world, if he wants. But it hurts sometimes, watching the real Elliot be everything that he couldn’t. Having a relationship with Darlene, seeing a therapist once a week (not Krista, the real Elliot couldn’t do that to her, not after everything that happened in her home), coping.

That’s one of the things Elliot couldn’t quite get the hang of. Coping. Not just burying everything wrong with himself or focusing on fixing other things like it would repair the warped machinery in his chest. But actually opening himself up and looking in at the mess of wires that someone had carelessly yanked on for the first eight years of his life.

The real Elliot is learning all those coping skills that Elliot rejected, despite Krista’s best efforts. He’s proud. He’s angry. He’s a mess.

They’re all the same Elliot, in the end, but he’s not in control anymore. Once, that would have made him feel scared, unsafe, paranoid. So he sits in his not-room and ignores the other versions of himself creeping around. His mother and his younger self. He ignores the real Elliot, living his real life. It’s better than being so aware of all the ways he can’t keep them safe anymore.

Mr. Robot is different. He’s spoken to Mr. Robot a few times. The man had hugged Elliot when he’d joined them, said, “Welcome home, kiddo,” in that easy going tone. Elliot had awkwardly wrapped his arms around Mr. Robot’s back, feeling oddly small against the man. It had only lasted a few seconds, but when he’d pulled away, the hint of something metallic, the faint warmth, had lingered in Elliot’s senses. He had said something in return, but his thoughts had been on that scent. So different, but oddly… comfortable.

He’s seen Mr. Robot since, when Elliot occasionally ventures out. Mr. Robot never fails to call out to him, and Elliot answers, or lets the man approach. It’s hard to ignore the part of him he’d spent the most time with, growing alongside, growing to understand and accept. Maybe Mr. Robot feels the same way, because he always seems to know when Elliot isn’t holed up in the copy of his apartment, and somehow finds him.

Normally the man greets him with a friendly, “Hey there, kiddo,” or a casual wave. But sometimes when he approaches, he gives Elliot a look. An alligator approaching through murky water. Mr. Robot, much like Edward Alderson, had always been a little hard to understand, while pretending to be perfectly transparent. But this felt different. Beneath his bespeckled gaze, Elliot felt like a string that failed to concatenate.

“Elliot,” Mr. Robot had said, sitting down on the same park bench Elliot had been silently occupying, watching the empty park in the empty world he’d made to hide the real Elliot away in. Elliot hadn’t even heard him approach, and he twitched away, looking up at the man.

“Hey,” Elliot said after a moment, voice rising like a question, settling back against the bench slowly.

The man put an arm around the back of the bench, fingers tugging Elliot’s hood down lightly. He threw a hand up, but it was too late, and he shot Mr. Robot an annoyed glare.

“What?” Mr. Robot fanned his fingers out disarmingly, and Elliot crossed his arms, looking out at the yellowed grass.

His fingers dug in under his arms, the hair at the nape of his neck on end. Mr. Robot was still looking at him, hadn’t started talking about whatever bullshit he normally brought up. “You need something?”

“I need to need something to talk to you now?” There was faux-hurt in Mr. Robot’s voice.

“No, you just…” Elliot shrugged. His eyes darted to Mr. Robot, met that narrow gaze half-hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, and twitched away.

They sat quietly for a while, but it did nothing to ease Elliot. Too aware of the presence next to him. The shape of Mr. Robot taking up the seat at Elliot’s side. The man was acting strange, but Elliot couldn’t put his finger on why. It wasn’t like Mr. Robot didn’t often mess with him just to get a reaction, but this felt pointed.

The ghost of fingers against the back of his neck made him jump, and he slapped his hand over it, jerking his head towards Mr. Robot. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”

Mr. Robot rolled his eyes, and Elliot stood, ready to leave.

“Oh, come on, Elliot, I’m just teasing. You’re so easy to rile up.”

“Whatever.” Elliot sat back down slowly, and finally Mr. Robot started talking about whatever shit the real Elliot was doing that he wanted to complain about this time. The pale light in the park made Elliot feel cold. That was it, he was sure, and not the sensation of fingers at his neck.

“This therapy shit,” Mr. Robot scoffed, leaning back against the bench, stretching his arm out behind Elliot. “It’s a waste of time. She’s just filling his head with shit, making him talk about the past.”

Elliot wondered if the “past” Mr. Robot was talking about is the same one that kept him up at night, kept him feeling so separate from the other alters. He doesn’t like checking in on those therapy sessions enough to find out.

“It’s supposed to be good. It’s helping,” Elliot said. “Give it up, man. Why do you care so much?”

“He doesn’t need help. He needs to get that snake out of his ear.”

The vehemence and disgust took Elliot aback a little, and he said nothing else, letting Mr. Robot rant it out.

He knows why Mr. Robot cares so much, of course. The reason he was created was to protect Elliot. He must feel powerless, taking a back seat and letting the real Elliot live his life. But the sudden diatribe against the new therapist was still strange, and it sits with Elliot for days after.

He doesn't like to admit that when he goes out, it’s often in the hopes that Mr. Robot will track him down, distract him from the shit going on in his head. Despite his abrasive personality, Elliot generally likes talking to Mr. Robot the most, of all the others. There was a reason, after all, that his best friend was—

He shuts that thought down.

But when Mr. Robot gets like this—strange, uncomfortable, personal—it’s more than Elliot knows what to do with. They’re not real, and yet Elliot feels real. Feels as much as he ever did when he was in control and he thought he was the real Elliot.

And Mr. Robot feels real, too. Sometimes too real.

It’s hard to handle, so Elliot stays in his apartment most of the time. There’s only a door when he wants there to be a door, and right now the wall where it would be is blank. Laying on the bed, which he did want, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, yellowed like his old apartment from the previous owner’s smoking habit. He wonders sometimes if the real Elliot has learned how to deal with things any better than he did. If it’s going to help with the nightmare and the loneliness.

He knows he’s not alone. He has his other selves, and even if he’s not in control, he has Darlene. He can look out at her anytime, do what Mr. Robot does and stalk the real Elliot around like a lonely old man. But that doesn’t feel real. His reality is laying in a dingy copy of his old apartment, steeped in memories that he can’t shake. He thinks about them more than he knows he should.

They shouldn’t bother him. It’s over, it’s done, the real Elliot is healing or making progress, or some other trite but hopeful saying. But they’ve been on his mind more and more recently, and the more he tries to push it away, the harder it resists. Like the science project he made in second grade, mixing cornstarch and water in his mother’s mixing bowl to make an ooblek. So easy to sink his fingers into, get lost in the slimy mixture, but when he applied force, slapping the surface, punching it, trying to push it, it became rock solid. His dad had leaned against Elliot’s back, calloused fingers wrapped around Elliot’s, helping him mix the cornstarch in. The smell of sweat, cigarette smoke, his father’s aftershave filling his head.

He puts a hand over his eyes. Takes a deep breath. It shakes on the exhale, throat tight. Thinking about his dad is a gamble on how he’ll feel, ranging from hot anger to a deep melancholy. Right now, he’s in the later, and he doesn’t know why. The thought of everything that his father did should disgust him, but laying on his bed, he just feels lonely.

He gets a handle on it, before the sting in his eyes can worsen. Sitting up, he shakes his head. Maybe he’ll go for a walk in the places that remain. The city he made for the real Elliot still exists, empty of all inhabitants. It’s just on the other side of his door, if he wants.

There’s a loud knock, and Elliot lowers his hand, looking at the door that wasn’t there a moment ago. Not that there’s a lot of options for who would give his room a door to knock on, but he knows without looking, and suddenly Elliot wants nothing less than to leave his apartment. For once, he doesn’t want Mr. Robot’s company.

He says nothing, hoping Mr. Robot will fuck off. Doesn’t move.

It’s silent, and after a moment Elliot stands up and moves towards the door to check the peephole.

A louder knock, and Elliot flinches, stopping in place. Barely breathing. Thinking, for some reason, of the key he’d hidden when he was a kid. It makes him flinch again, and he steps back, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, heart suddenly hammering.

“Come on, Elliot, open up! I know you’re in there. Had to make my own door here, don’t leave me hanging.” Mr. Robot’s voice is friendly as always.

Elliot cups a hand over his mouth, as if to silence his breathing, then lowers it. Why is he acting like this? It’s only Mr. Robot.

The knocking comes again, insistent.

“I’m busy,” Elliot says, loudly, turning around and walking to his desk. There’s a laptop there now, and he sits down at it, putting his elbows on either side of the computer, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples.

“No, you’re not,” Mr. Robot says, unexpectedly clear, and Elliot’s head whips up.

The door is open, and Mr. Robot saunters casually towards Elliot through his kitchenette. There’s that look on his face again, like he’s spotted something interesting. Something he can’t keep his eyes off of. Something he wants to pick apart.

Elliot glares. “I said I’m busy.”

“Well, you don’t look very busy to me.”

Standing, Elliot intends to brush past the man and leave the apartment. He doesn’t want company. He wants a distraction that isn’t other people, even if the other person is just another side of himself. Especially not Mr. Robot, not now.

A hand catches him in the chest. Elliot feels cold through the hoodie, a layer of ice creeping out from where the points of Mr. Robot’s fingers pin him like a bug.

“Hold on there, kiddo,” Mr. Robot says, pushing Elliot back slightly.

“Stop.” Elliot pushes away from the hand, stepping back. He wants to walk past Mr. Robot, but his skin crawls at the thought of being touched again. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

It’s dim in the apartment, just the faint daylight creeping in through the shut blinds. Elliot can’t really make out Mr. Robot’s eyes—his cap is pulled low and his glasses reflect what light there is. Bright, unearthly eyes.

“I noticed.” With a sigh, Mr. Robot looks around at the apartment. “This is depressing. Is this where you lived out there?”

“What? What are you talking about? You know where I Iived.” Shaking his head, Elliot’s eyes narrow. It’s hard to tell if Mr. Robot is fucking with him, or if something else is going on.

Mr. Robot pauses, looking at Elliot. “Right.”

He’s silent after that, just staring. The bright lamps of his eyes unmoving for long enough that Elliot wonders if he’s changed his mind about whatever he wanted and will finally leave. But all he’s doing is standing there. A chill creeps up Elliot’s spine.

“Okay, man, what do you want?” Elliot finally says, voice too loud, too forceful in the quiet dark. He just wants Mr. Robot to leave. Sweat breaks out across his back, and he crosses his arms, taking another step back.

Mr. Robot’s head tilts slightly, a smile stretching his lips. He’s never seen Mr. Robot smile like that, and Elliot’s heart jumps against his ribs. It’s fond, amused, rueful all at once. His hands are hidden in the pockets of his worn, brown jacket. He looks nothing but easy and relaxed where he stands. Elliot’s pulse races.

“I wanted to see you,” Mr. Robot says, taking a step forward to the spot where Elliot is suddenly rooted. His footsteps creak across the floorboards. Elliot doesn’t remember them ever doing that before, but the sound is loud in his ears and disturbingly familiar.

“Okay… Well, you’ve seen me. Get out.” He sounds like a petulant kid. He hates it.

“Come on, Elliot. You know what I mean. For old times sake.”

“No! I don’t know what you mean. Just leave!” Elliot bursts out, panting, his chest twisted tight from the inside. He’s cold and hot all at once, as if a fever is burning through him. He can’t stand the sight of the moonglow on Mr. Robot’s glasses—no, not the moon, the sun, it’s daylight. It’s day time, he’s in his apartment, none of this is even real.

Mr. Robot is close enough to touch. Close enough to smell, but there’s none of that metallic warmth. It’s a different scent.

“I’ve missed you, son.”

Elliot is made of stone as a calloused palm touches his cheek. 

Aftershave, odorless soap, sweat, cigarette smoke.

The scent makes Elliot want to gag.

“You’re not Mr. Robot.”

“Ding ding ding,” the man before him chimes with a little smile.

“Wh- why are you here?” Elliot croaks out, his limbs heavy. He wants to jerk away from the touch to his cheek but he can’t make himself move. Can barely wrap his mind around the ghost of his father’s touch on his face. Why is Edward Alderson standing here, in Elliot’s faux-apartment? Did his mind create him, a facsimile person to fill this empty world? Is he another personality, one that’s been hidden away all this time, or one that’s been newly made? “What are you?”

“What do you mean, Elliot? It’s bedtime,” Edward says, pressing in closer, breath burning across Elliot’s face.

Legs finally moving, Elliot stumbles back, propelling himself away from the man. The back of his knees hit something and he goes down, arms pinwheeling. But the fall isn’t as high as it should be, and he bounces against the bed, falling flat on his back. Above him, the spider he’d hung from the ceiling fan’s chain in his childhood bedroom turns a slow circle as the fan churns.

“What the fuck.” Elliot pushes up on his elbows, looking up at his dad—not his dad, at Edward, this _isn’t_ his dad.

And this isn’t his apartment.

He stares around, stomach curdling. The pale blue paint of the walls, darkened to a dreary gray in the dimness. The dresser on his left, covered in toys and drawings and the random detritus of his childhood. The lamp in the corner his mom had stored in his room for lack of anywhere else to put it, and not wanting to throw it away. The posters on his walls, of comic books and movies and things he’d enjoyed with his dad. And behind the silhouette of his father, the window, outlining him in harsh moonlight.

“This isn’t real,” he mutters to himself.

“As real as everything else, kiddo,” Edward says, his shadow towering over Elliot, leaning down.

Elliot jerks at the touch of fingers against his bare skin, looking down at himself. His shirt is pushed up, Edward’s hand spreading across the pale expanse of Elliot’s belly. A belly which is thinner by far than it should be, his narrow hips leading to the stick thin legs he’d had when he was a child. His knees curl around the end of the bed and his feet don’t even brush the floor.

“Oh f-fuck,” he breathes.

A soft huff of laughter draws Elliots gaze slowly up, out of the stunning realization, and another hand joins the one on Elliot’s stomach, sliding his shirt up. “Shh,” his father says, not unkindly. “It’s okay, kiddo, I’m not hurting you.”

“No, no, no, no.” His voice is far too high, a voice still a few years off from the harrows of a puberty spent hating the changes in his body. The mornings he would wake up, irrationally panicked at the wetness in his underwear, then ashamed when his mother berated him when she caught it. This isn’t right. He may not be in control out there, but he’s in control here. His apartment, his space, his choice. It’s supposed to be _his._

He closes his eyes, imagining the apartment he lived in. The blinds open, daylight pouring in, every lamp on, his laptop open and brightness on max. The door open to the hallway outside, dingy and covered in trash, its lightbulb flickering at every hard step in the building, but an exit nonetheless. He wants for it so bad it makes him lightheaded.

He opens his eyes. The room is still dark, and Edward sets a knee on the edge of the bed, against the outside of Elliot’s pajama clad thigh.

The shirt slides up. Elliot wants to slap his dad’s— _Edward’s_ hands away, shove off the bed. But something stops him. A bone deep anxiety, one he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. One that stays his hands and makes him clench his jaw until it aches, just so he won’t let out a sound. His throat tightens to the size of a pinhole.

_Shh, be quiet. Darlene and your mother are sleeping._

“I’ve missed you,” Edward whispers, crawling up onto the bed, his body eclipsing Elliot’s far too small one. In the dark of the room, Edward’s face is unknowable, and Elliot’s heart jackrabbits against his rib cage, trying to break free.

He doesn’t see Mr. Robot as his father. Despite everything, despite how the two share Edward’s face, share his voice, share his mannerisms, being next to Mr. Robot has never felt like it does now. He knows his father, intimately, and the being before him—another alter, like him, or just a nightmare he’s having—is his father down to his core. Elliot wants to scream, but he has no voice. Not when Dad is in the room.

“Didn’t you miss me?” Dad asks, his head dipping. Whiskers scratch Elliot’s smooth stomach, soft lips sucking a light kiss just above his belly button. Elliot’s gut swoops at the sensation. “I missed this, kiddo. We used to have so much fun.”

His head finally moves, a barely-there shake in the dark. Trying to deny Edward’s words. But something in him stirs. All the memories he’d tried to push down, lock away, hide behind the partition so he could pretend his father wasn’t the monster he was running from—they flood him. The late nights, with his mother and sister sleeping just down the hall. His father in bed with him, holding him, talking to him, touching him. Telling him what a good kid he is, how much Daddy loves him. The quiet breaths and gentle hands and not-so gentle motion of Edward’s body on top of him.

His arms shift up along the bed, shirt sliding over them, over his head. He’s in darkness for a moment, and Elliot shuts his eyes again, thinking of the boardroom, or the park, the ashes of the Red Wheelbarrow, Angela’s high rise apartment, the abandoned arcade.

He’s still in this room when he opens them again, his arms tangled above his head in the shirt. A hand finds the nape of his neck, fingers brushing through the short hair, nails scratching lightly over the skin in a gesture that makes Elliot’s chest ache. But they draw away after a moment, as Edward’s mouth moves up Elliot’s thin, prepubescent body. Licking at his nipple, flicking his tongue over it until it pebbles up and can be sucked into that hot mouth. Again the flicker of something in Elliot’s gut, the swinging of a rusty ferris wheel gondola. He chokes, and hates the sound with every fiber of his being.

“There we go,” Dad says, hot breath fanning over the wet nipple, making it tingle. “That’s it. You remember, it felt good, didn’t it?”

It hadn’t. It was the worst feeling in the world. The secrecy, the lies, the fear. Fear of someone finding out, fear that it would never end, fear that it _would_ end because it would mean his father is dead, that no one could save him from the cancer.

Edward’s hand wanders back down Elliot’s body, fingers touching the waistband of his pajamas and underwear, slipping them down. Elliot jumps at the feeling, hands finally moving, shooting out. Grabbing Dad’s wrist, his breaths unsteady.

“No, s-stop. This isn’t real. You’re not real.” It sounds so weak. The voice of a little kid who couldn’t even tell someone what was going on. There’s no strength or belief in it.

“Just who are you trying to convince?” Edward’s voice is amused. “Not me, I hope. I’m more real than you, kiddo. You’re a zero. False. You didn’t even exist until a year ago. I’m a one. I’ve always existed. You tried to forget, but you couldn’t. You don’t really want to, do you?”

“You’re not real,” he repeats, staring down at his own fingers so small around Edward’s wrist. “None— none of this is.”

Where he hadn’t wanted to even look at Mr. Robot before, he would now give anything to have the alter come banging on his door and tear this nightmare apart. Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? Protect Elliot from—this?

“Elliot, don’t pretend like this isn’t something you want. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“No, that’s not true. You’re just trying to manipulate me.”

But. Hadn’t he been thinking of his dad so much lately? Had that summoned him, made him appear? No, Elliot hadn’t wanted this. Yet doubt slips through him like a worm, growing and multiplying.

“You know it is, Elliot. All the fun times we’ve had, like when we took apart our computer, even though Mom was pissed at us. Going camping in the woods, just us guys. Halloween!”

Edward’s wrist slips from Elliot’s suddenly limp grasp. He knows exactly what Dad is referring to.

It’s something he hasn’t thought of in a long time. Even before he’d carefully hidden it all away. Shame had kept him from digging it up, un-encrypting the thoughts into shameful memory—the Halloween before his dad died, when Edward dressed them up in matching costumes. Marty and Doc Brown. Trick or treating around the neighborhood, Elliot holding Darlene’s tiny hand, dressed as a pumpkin. Coming home and counting the candy with Dad. Sitting on the couch, far past bedtime, watching scary movies. His mother had told them not to stay up too late, but for once there hadn’t been that underlying annoyance at everything Elliot did. 

She put Darlene to bed and went to sleep herself while Elliot laughed and hid his face against Edward, and the night had been so good he didn’t want to ruin it. So he’d kissed Dad, because he was so happy, and he wanted Dad to be happy. And Dad had kissed him back, tasting of chocolate, artificial sweetness, and red dye 40.

It had escalated from there, right on the living room couch, with Elliot’s mom and sister asleep upstairs. Elliot had escalated it. Had put his hand on his father’s crotch and felt the hardness there, and unzipped Dad’s pants. Used his hands, then his mouth, and then had stripped the costume off and sat in his dad’s lap and let the large hands on his hips guide him up and down.

Elliot burns white-hot at the memory. The hand slips beneath his pajamas, and Elliot’s chest tightens until he can’t breath, frozen as it finds his dick. Edward cups it, squeezing lightly, giving a gentle tug. To his horror, he’s already half-hard in his dad’s warm, dry hand.

“See? What did I tell you? You don’t really want to give this up. You miss me, but not as much as I’ve missed you. God, I’ve missed you, kiddo.” The hand leaves him suddenly, pulling out of his pajama pants completely. Edward leans over him, gathering Elliot into his arms, picking him up off the bed in a hug.

His heart twists as Dad tucks his chin against Elliot’s smaller shoulder, breathing deeply. He can’t even remember the last time they hugged. Years and his own unreliable memory have buried it. But the feeling—he could never forget it. Mr. Robot could never hug quite like this. So desperately possessive, as if he never wanted to let Elliot go. Didn’t want death to rip them apart. The scent of his father fills his head like cigarette smoke. Sinking into his lungs, a numbing buzz. His hands twitch, still caught in the tangle of his shirt, and then he shakes it free and they’re on his dad, squeezing, holding him back as desperately as he used to. Wanting to memorize the feeling for when he knew Dad would be gone.

“Hey, hey, come on, kiddo, don’t cry. I’m right here,” Dad whispers, and Elliot shudders and shakes against him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

Edward shuffles them up the bed, laying Elliot down on his old pillow. In the moonlight coming in through the windows, his glasses flash again as he presses his lips to Elliot’s. It’s almost instinctual for him to open his mouth in return, let the larger tongue slip against his, guiding it in a strange ritual. The scratch of Dad’s facial hair uncomfortable—familiar.

What is he doing? He’s not a kid anymore, he doesn’t have to do this. None of this is real. He’s not even real. Just a piece of data in the real Elliot’s brain. How is this happening? Why is he letting it happen again? Where is Mr. Robot? It’s a childish thought but he can’t help it. Where’s his imaginary friend when Elliot needs him?

“Elliot,” Dad breathes, kissing him again, and then at the tears tracking down his cheek. “Elliot, it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

“Dad…”

The mouth covers his, teeth grazing his lower lip, sucking on it as Edward grabs the waistband of Elliot’s pajamas and underwear and works them down his narrow hips. He almost feels like it’s happening to someone else. Another Elliot, one that whimpers as his little cock is freed, one that helps kick his clothes off, a different Elliot who wraps his legs around his Dad’s waist and grinds against his clothed erection.

“Elliot,” Dad whispers, voice breathless, hands cupping Elliot’s face. Two fingers against his lips, cherry red and spit-shiny, opening him up, slipping inside.

He knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s done it a hundred times, in the dark of his bedroom, his dad shushing him and ordering him to suck. Edward doesn’t even have to say it. Elliot’s lips close around the digits and his tongue laves at them. Sucking them in to the last knuckle, his tongue swirling around and between them, against the webbing. He feels the tips brushing the back of his throat. His own hand clutched in his dad’s jacket like a lifeline. Like any second Dad will disappear again.

“Good boy. That’s my good boy,” Edward groans, and his hips rock. The length of his trapped cock rubs roughly over Elliot’s, and the words make Elliot’s eyes burn with fresh tears even as electricity shoots through him.

Guilt and disgust and longing. He was wrong. He has missed this. His dad’s praise and gentle touch. His pride and his love. If this is how he gets it, the part of him that is still an eight year old longing for any scrap of affection doesn’t care.

After a minute, Edward pulls his hand back, fingers leaving Elliot’s mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva hangs between them, stretching until it snaps, before the hand disappears between their bodies.

He can’t see much of his dad’s expression in the dark, but he can guess at it. The excitement and arousal and love. Just for Elliot.

Edward kisses him again, the drag of lips and tongues against each other slow and sweet. But the tickle of wet fingers trailing over the back of his thighs and ass, sliding beneath his soft little sack, to the tight pucker of his hold, snaps Elliot back into his body. He tenses, suddenly aware of his hands fisted in his Dad’s jacket, his legs locked around his father.

“Dad, please,” he says, hoarse and small. “Stop. I don’t want to.” It sounds like a lie, even as he says it, but he can’t do this again. He can’t. He mourned his dad, he grew up and grew to hate everything that had happened and had hidden it all for his own protection. But with the scent of his dad all around him, the feel of the man in his arms again, he can’t tell if he locked that information away because it hurt too much to remember what had happened, or if it only hurt so much because Dad was gone.

He wants his Dad. He doesn’t want to hurt again.

“Stop lying to yourself, Elliot. You know you do.”

The fingers press in, pushing into the tight ring of muscle. Elliot makes a sound deep in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs. He shoves against Edward’s chest suddenly, trying to break free. Knees digging into Edward’s waist, pushing with all his strength. But his dad is bigger, stronger. He digs an arm under Elliot, crushing Elliot to his chest, and those fingers press in and in and in. Moving around, back and forth, scissoring him open.

Gasping, Elliot manages, “Stop, I-I want to go back.” His voice breathless and light. Another finger presses in with the rest. It’s too much, too quick, too dry. “Dad, please, stop, stop! It-it—it _hurts!_ ”

“Shh,” Dad murmurs. “Okay, okay, hold on.”

The fingers pull away, out of him, and Elliot’s body loosens from a taut arch, sinking into his father’s grip, panting. He can hear rustling in the dark, make out the shadow of his father digging through his jacket pocket. Something plastic snaps, and Elliot knows what it is instantly. The vaseline his father always swiped from the bathroom on the way to Elliot’s room, and always carefully replaced on the way back. He can hear the wet sounds of it on Dad’s hands, and the push of fingers against his ass returns before he’s ready.

They go in much easier this time, the slick petroleum making the slide smooth, soothing the raw skin. It’s so achingly familiar that Elliot feels the pit of anger bubbling in his stomach calming.

It shouldn’t be a comfort, his father’s fingers in him. Moments ago he was fighting to get free. Now he can’t stop himself from rolling his hips into the fingers, arousal humming through him. His little cock hasn’t softened at all, and when those fingers touch the bundle of his prostate, it twitches as Elliot gasps and arches.

“Fuck,” Edward groans, mouth hovering over Elliot’s own open, panting mouth. “Fucking hell, kiddo. I almost forgot how tight you are.”

“Don’t… don’t say that,” he says, face hot, voice weak, only for those fingers to press firmly against that spot again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. You don’t even know.”

Elliot wants to hide his face. He doesn’t want to be seen, least of all like this. But there’s nowhere to go, his father still holding him close, arms trapped. He’s so small, Dad’s body almost entirely eclipsing him. It used to make him feel safe, being so close to his dad. Now he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. The pendulum swinging between grief and desire and disgust and loneliness.

He says nothing, voice caught in his throat. Eyes burning anew. The fingers slip out of him again, and Elliot shudders at the loss, hips curling up as if to follow. But the hand is between them now, struggling with the button and zipper of Edward’s pants. Elliot doesn’t move, even as the weight lifts off of him briefly.

Where would he go? Further into the house? Out the window? He was wrong, again. He doesn’t want Mr. Robot to come, doesn’t want a witness to this. To know how corrupt he is inside.

He shuts his eyes, but doesn’t bother trying to think of elsewheres that he could be. His dad is above him, the slick sound of vaseline and precome mixing together as Edward strokes himself. The heat gathering between their bodies. His own cock straining for some kind of stimulation.

Dad’s mouth captures his again as he nudges his cock against Elliot’s hole. Elliot relaxes into the arm beneath his back. He’s already lost control. It doesn’t matter anymore what he wants or doesn’t want or is too afraid to think of. That familiar sensation of being penetrated slices up his spine.

It’s a struggle, he’s so small and tight. Obviously no hardship for Dad, who groans and whispers a litany of “fucks” between which he kisses and nips at Elliot’s still mouth. Elliot shuts off the part of his brain that cares and just floats.

It hurts, always does at first. His dad is too big and he’s too small. The motion of Edward rocking slowly into him burns in spite of the vaseline. Elliot’s eyes drift open, staring up at his father’s furrowed brows, close enough to see the stiff hairs of his jaw and the vein in his forehead. It used to scare him, the faces Dad would make when he was on top of Elliot like this. Scared Dad was in as much pain as he was.

Edward’s hips start to move, in and out, and Elliot feels it through his body. The pain not disappearing, but being overwhelmed by the blunt head deep inside him, the angle pressing against his prostate again and again. He arches and moans and Dad kisses his jaw and neck and shoulders.

The arm under him grips at his back, fingers digging hard enough to hurt. He feels the bruising force and whines softly. His face is numb.

“God, Elliot, Elliot,” Dad whispers fiercely. “You’re so good. Such a good boy. Good boy, Elliot.”

The words dig hooks into his gut, yanking harshly. His little cock twitches again, red and stiff. Edward curls wet fingers around him, stroking him, making Elliot’s hips buck. He keens low in his throat, body moving of its own volition, a program running without his input. Seeking whatever attention it can. The hand on him, the cock in his ass.

“Dad,” he hears himself say, distantly. “Dad, _ah_ , _Daddy_.”

He doesn’t remember the last time he called his dad that.

“That’s right, kiddo,” Dad grunts, his thrusts shaking the bed, the headboard swaying dangerously close to the wall. “Daddy’s got you. Just let it happen. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Some part of him thinks, none of this is okay, but it’s buried beneath the rising heat in his belly and the feeling of Edward’s whiskery kisses on his face again. His own lips and tongue loose and yielding.

He knows when Dad is about to come, so used to the sensation, though it’s been nearly two decades since he last felt it. The way Edward’s strokes deepen and slow, jaw tensing, eyes going half-lidded. Then he feels it, the twitching, pulsing of his Dad’s cock inside him as Edward buries himself in Elliot to the root. Grinding against him, the hand on Elliot’s slick little dick squeezing.

He doesn’t even realize he’s coming, too, until it shakes through him, body curving off the bed, right against his dad. There’s no come—too young for this body to start producing it. But the feeling is just as intense, and he drops back, gasping and dazed.

“You felt so good,” Edward praises him in a husky whisper that sends tingles across Elliot’s scalp. “Just perfect, kiddo. Just like I remember.”

The weight of his Dad presses down on him, across his chest and shoulders, as if to compress him into nothingness. Elliot wouldn’t mind it. It would be better than the feeling of contentment swelling through him, digging into every corner, dusting out lonely crevices and hollow chambers.

“I want to wake up,” Elliot says in that too-young voice. Maybe this is a dream. A horrible dream. Maybe he’s not here at all.

“You are awake, son,” Edward says, shifting, grunting as he pulls out slowly. It leaves Elliot feeling sore, empty. His knees hurt from squeezing against his dad so hard.

“How do I know?”

“Would I lie to you?”

Yes, Elliot thinks. But part of him, that eight year old voice, whispers, _no._

“Are we done?” he says instead, watching as Edward climbs off of him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed at Elliot’s bare hip. The departure of all that body heat sends a shiver up Elliot’s spine.

“Done?” Shaking his head, his dad stands up, tucking himself away, straightening his clothes. In the dark room, he’s all blacks and blues and the bright reflection off his glasses. Just like every night he would sneak back out of Elliot’s room, getting himself together so Magda won’t be suspicious. Pocketing the vaseline to return it to the bathroom on his way to their room. Finally, he looks at Elliot. “I told you, kiddo, I’m not leaving you again.”

Elliot’s swallows, laying his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“Because,” Edward says, patronizing, tilting his head slightly. “You miss me. You want me. Why else would I be here?”

“I don’t miss you. I hate you.” Elliot mutters, but it’s a lie, a falsehood that twists inside him like a knife as he watches Edward head towards his bedroom door.

“We both know that’s not true.” Pausing in the doorway, Edward looks back at Elliot. There’s a smile, barely visible, hiding in the shadows of his face. “Remember, kiddo. This is our little secret.”

Then he’s gone, the bedroom door shutting softly behind him. The room is deafeningly quiet in his absence, and Elliot rolls on his side. His bare ass is wet, cold, throbbing. He’s cold all over, but he can’t get up, can’t cover himself, can’t do anything but lay there, shaking minutely. Wondering why he’s so defective. Why he let that happen. Why he’s still in his childhood bedroom, even though Edward is gone, and he’s alone. The spider hanging from his fan circles slowly above him. The moon outside his window doesn’t move.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Elliot, he's just so hurtable


End file.
